


The Long Hunt

by Calyss



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bad Songs By Me, Curses, Denial of Feelings, Except I Mess It Up Again, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, From Rare Species on, Jaskier and Yennefer team up, Jaskier is a Mess, Jaskier's Potent Seed, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Non-Chronological, Not a happy ot3 sorry, POV Multiple, Puns & Word Play, Slow Burn, Some Book/Game Canon Stuff I Picked Out At Random, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyss/pseuds/Calyss
Summary: 1. A Garden of Corpses....................................(Ciri)2. The Singer's Call..........................................(Geralt)3. Down the Road I Go.....................................(Jaskier)4. Hunting the Lark..........................................(Geralt)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennfer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 19
Kudos: 91





	1. A Garden of Corpses

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Netflix show don't @ me I'm a Witcher newbie and english ain't my first language. Enjoy.

Ciri walked through a garden of corpses.

It was a beautiful place, green and lush, surrounded by low creamy walls and high columns, nature tamed in a little pocket of civilization. The kind of places you'd want to spend the afternoon reading in, or playing with children. Or the evening, having whispered conversations, hidden from the manor house by thick rose bushes. Or a sunny morning, taking breakfast at the elegant table sitting on green lawn, buttercups flowering all around in the grass.

Only there was red on the cobblestones and pale limbs shouting up from the bushes. Rich fabrics and simple linens stained dark on men, women and children alike. There had been a feast going, she surmised from the number of people and the spilled food and wine that made the whole scene look like some of the _nature morte_ paintings she’d walked by at home and she wondered who could be so deaf to the rest of the world that they could make merry while their neighbors were slaughtered in the south and the east. 

But then she remembered her last days in Cintra, where there'd been a feast too, and how she’d been so ignorant of war, and felt shame for her thoughts. Those people, after all, had just been invaded and slaughtered themselves.

She went through the manor house’s door, following on Geralt silent footsteps.

It was cool inside, with no fire burning and not a sound other than the one of flies, and it smelled like death, with no breeze to chase the scent away. They were less people there than outside though, as they’d tried to flee and had been caught in the garden, and more smashed plates and crushed crystal wineglasses. 

There was no sign of the Witcher, gone further in the house, seeking the gods knew what. 

There was no sign of the assaillants either. No bodies that she could tell had not been people of the house or guests.

Until she found a nilfgaardian helmet, bending the spine of a woman with torn clothes and unseeing eyes, half hidden by her dress and forgotten there by the men who had killed her.

A shiver of fear ran through Ciri. Not fear for herself. She knew she wasn't defenseless, and that Geralt would do his legendary best to protect her. No, she feared for the world. For if Nilfgaard was in Redania...

 _How though?_ They hadn't heard of Temeria having fallen. _Yet_ , she thought grimly, for she had witnessed first hand how driven they were to conquer the entirety of the continent. This must have been a small unit. Maybe brought there by a mage. To sow discord behind the lines. To weaken them in their soft core. Or maybe seeking something...

Seeking the same thing that they were.

Not that she knew what it was. They had no certain goal in their journey, after they had failed to find Yennefer in Sodden. ( _I don't know why I thought she'd be there_ , Geralt had said. _Or why I thought she might have needed me._ And he'd left it at that.) Only following the road away from the trouble in the south and Geralt taking contracts on the way. Or so she'd thought.

Geralt hadn’t said a word in a while, too long even for him, and he’d ignored all her questions during the last miles of their journey north-west, tense as if he’d been scenting death on the air as they rode, and he might very well had done exactly that. His Witcher senses were that remarkable, she'd quickly learned since they had found each other. 

“Stay here," he'd said roughly as they'd finally stopped in front of a wrought iron gate a short distance away from the last village they'd passed through - a quiet place, she'd noted in passing, too quiet, she thought now, wondering how many of the village folks she'd seen lying on the flower covered grass outside.

Geralt had dismounted promptly, unsheathing his sword. The steel one, Ciri had noted. He’d expected to fight humans today.

But there was no one left to fight here. Nilfgaard had come and left, leaving behind only death and destruction. 

The Witcher joined her in the main room a few minutes later, his sword sheathed once more and a stunned look on his face.

"They're gone," he said, sitting abruptly on one of the few chairs left standing in the room and putting his face in his hands, rubbing roughly at his eyelids, a noise that sounded halfway between relief and fear escaping his throat and Ciri couldn't help but feel surprised. She knew he was not as stone cold as the stories claimed Witchers were, but this, she had not expected from him.

And she knew then that "they" wasn't referring to the nilfgaardians.

She approached him slowly, placed a hand on his shoulder, making him look up at her. He was trembling slightly under her palm, but his jaw was set firm and anger was shining unbridled in his wolf eyes. A promise of retribution.

“Geralt. Who lived here?"


	2. The Singer's Call

Geralt walks into the small redanian town, leading Roach by the reins. They rode all day, and he wanted to shake the rust off his legs and give the mare some well needed relief. She's a good horse, but even she sometimes gets tired of hauling his hide across the continent.

In the middle of the town's square is a great old oak, and on the other side of it an inn, with the name "the Singer's Call" painted on its sign and he frowns at it, but marches towards it nonetheless.

"Toss a coin to your Witcher..."

 _Fuck_ , is Geralt instinctive response to the tune. He freezes. But then he realizes the voice is that of a little girl, sitting on a windowsill a few feet above his head. He stops, Roach's head bumping into his shoulder as she, too, grinds to a halt. The girl sees him looking up and disappears into the inn's second story with a small yelp.

He chuckles. Tries to not take it as another - bad, always bad, he reminds himself - omen. He's tired. And the inn looks alright.

And that song is old news anyway.

* * *

The Singer's Call is more than alright as it turns out. Placed like it is as a cross-road on majors axes, it sees a lot of travelers and merchants, and is well staffed and furnished. The food is good if somewhat plain, but Geralt is not about to complain after days spent travelling the wilderness.

"Witcher."

Geralt looks up to the innkeeper, who's just came out from behind his bar and up to his table. Geralt raises a curious eyebrow. The inn's common room is full - even though there's no singer, but there's ale aplenty and that's enough for most people - and bodies obscure most of it from his sight (but not from his ears or nose...), and most importantly hiding him, giving him anonymity among the crowd. Strange that the innkeeper has left his work to come talk to him, when he could have done it earlier, when Geralt asked him for a pint. He has seen him glance at his medallion, eyeing his swords. 

The man looks at him intently, his large frame tense, his thick arms crossed across his broad chest. 

"I have a job for you."

"What kind?"

"Not the usual, as far as I know," the man grumbles. "But you're the best person I know for it, and coming at an opportune time. And I'll pay you well."

"Hmm."

"Come here." 

From behind him, he extracts... two children. Brings them forward against Geralt's table, hands resting heavy on their shoulders. Two pairs of blue eyes look up at him, making him jolt back slightly, and then lean forward again, as he won't admit letting two - what? seven years old - children spook him. Even he does care to his reputation to some point.

"Bring those two to their father. Or don't. I don't care," the man says, immediately contradicting himself by letting go of the boy and fishing in his pocket for a fat purse that he drops on the table.

"Their father - wha... No." Geralt says quickly.

 _No._ He doesn't do children. He already has enough on his mind with the child he doesn't have. Those two aren't his concern.

_And escort quests suck._

"They aren't mine," the man says as if Geralt has disputed it. "And with my wife dead, like hell I am going to keep raising the bastards of another man!"

Geralt looks at the kids. They're small, with chestnut hair and pale blue eyes. Nothing to do indeed with the man's looks, his dark eyes and dark, curled hair... And they look up at their - not - father with resignation, as if they've already been made too aware of that fact. 

In unison, they turn toward him again, lips tight but twin set of eyes intent on him and he feels a lump in his throat that has no rights to be there.

 _Shit_.

"Alright, alright," Geralt says, already regretting it. "Where does he live? What's his name?"

"That first one I don't know. Travel around, he does." the innkeeper replies, and Geralt can feel the start of a migraine showing up its ugly head. He's _not_ in the mood to play hide and seek across the lands with two children in tow, and he's about to say it when... "But he goes by _Jaskier_."

* * *

Geralt laughs.

He just can't stop himself. This is too good of a joke, and the best one he's heard in a long time. _Jaskier_ , having _children_. He can't think of a man less suited for parenthood, other than maybe himself. Jaskier is barely capable of looking after his own person. Always getting into trouble of some sort, always moving around, always _fucking_ around...

Said fucking around that is now falling out on Geralt, as usual. 

The innkeeper throws him a furious look.

"Do tell me more," he says instead of running for the hills. He wants to keep on laughing, because _how_ , and _why_? Why does Destiny keeps toying with him so? Tying him up in so many ways to people he can't allow himself to get tied up to.

But he stops himself and listen intently as the man talks:

"My wife, Ada. She was a singer. Met her when she left Oxenfurt to travel the world. Only she traveled not further than this inn," He smiles then, seeming to deflates as we looks sadly into nothingness. The kids look down. Geralt forces himself to look away from their bowed heads. He doesn't feel like laughing anymore. "We fell in love. She stayed there and sang for me for the rest of her life. But she was pregnant when we met, you see. With those two. She never lied, never tried to pass them off as mine. She told me she'd had a thing with one of her teachers, a famous bard who had attached himself to a famous witcher." Geralt groans, now understanding why he, of all people, has been singled out for this task - _damn you Jaskier, you and your cursed songs_... And then of course: "She loved his songs. She kept on singing them to the kids..." He trails off. Shakes himself out of his memories. "You're Geralt of Rivia, right? The White Wolf?"

"Yes," Geralt responds, throat tightening on the word, like Destiny tightening its grip on him. 

That bitch.

"Well, White Wolf, my wife is dead. I have three other mouths to feed, and those children are here, in a place they don't belong too, because of your exploits." Geralt opens his mouth, both to protest the unfair accusation - he's never _asked_ Jaskier to seduce women with songs about him - and to asks what the fuck the man means by "don't belong"; but before he has the time, the innkeeper says, pushing the purse towards him. "That's the money Ada kept for them, earned all on her own. The gods only know what for, they probably won't live past their teens, poor twisted fuckers. Now, take it, so it can be of actual use. And take them off of my hands."

And his words are a slap to the face - _if life could give me a blessing -_ and he takes one look at the children, and sees Jaskier all over them, from the tip of their noses to their wide blue eyes, staring up at him like he's their key to salvation, and - _it would be to take you off my hands.._.

 _Fuck_.

"Fine, I'll do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felt like Jaskier HAS to have at least a few bastards running around with all the sex he supposedly had all across the continent and figured it would fit right in with this fic


	3. Down The Road I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier isn't subtle.  
> He's also a bit awful lol but he'll get better in time.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

The same words keeps playing over and over again in Jaskier's head as he trudges down the mountain path. 

Words like metal barbs, hooking under his skin, twisting into his flesh a bit more with every step he takes. 

_I should be used to it by now_ , he muses, but this argument - no, not an argument, it was far too one-sided for that. It was been a send-off. An execution. An avalanche, swiping him off his feet and hauling him down the mountain, sending him to crash down, far below - it had sounded like the final final bell at the funeral of their relationship - professional or otherwise. 

_Or "otherwise"_. Right. So much for that.

Geralt of Rivia doesn't do friendship, as he said again and again, never mind anything deeper. Unless you have a nice pair of tits and crazy sex magic, he supposes, and even then... He could almost pity Yennefer, if Jaskier's own current predicament wasn't entirely _her_ fault.

"A storm breaking on the horizon..." he starts singing under his breath. There's no grace to it, only spite. "Of longing and heartache and lust. She’s always bad news. It’s always lose, lose..."

Speaking of loss... _He_ hasn't gotten lost, has he?

Jaskier looks around - really looks around for the first time in a while, and realizes that he has come to a fork in the path.

He was counting on going down the mountain with Geralt or not at all (because leaving without Geralt had meant then that the Witcher was dead, and if Geralt was dead, then Jaskier was dead too, because without the Witcher, he was no good against armed men, never mind dragons) and now he has no clue which path he's supposed to take. Well, what a nice fucking metaphor for his life.

_If I get lost on top of it all..._

Who knows where the wrong path could take him? Deeper into the mountains, no doubt. Days away from the first town, from food and a bed... To a monster's lair, maybe something even worse than a dragon. Or to a sorceress's tower, because that's just what's lacking in his life, another one of those chaos channeling lunatics...

He hears a horse neigh. 

"Oh, _thank fuck_..."

It's Roach, waiting patiently for her rider, hidden out of sight by the first bend of the path on his right, and behind her, the road that will take him far away from there. 

She's the only horse left. Yennefer's gone, along with the dwarves's mounts, and those of the Crinfrid Reavers.

 _The dwarves probably stole those on their way,_ he deducts.

_Could have at least left me one._

And now he won't get the missing details of this latest adventure. Not that he really wants to, not anymore. He's sick of dragons and quests right now.

It also means that Geralt is still up there, and Jaskier looks nervously over his shoulder. Almost hopefully, he realizes after a couple minutes scrutinizing the bushes and trying to see through tree trunks.

"You damn idiot," he admonishes himself, swiping angrily at his eyes, where tears are welling up again. "What do you think is going to happen if he shows up now?"

_Do you think he's going to apologize?_

No fucking way in hell. Geralt just got what he has wanted for years, doesn't he? _Blessed silence_. Jaskier _off of his hands._

He turns back toward Roach. She's looking at him placidly, silent and ungrudging.

He walks up to the mare and, for a little while, cries into her coarse mane, arms wound up tight around her large neck. To his vague surprise, she lets him do it. 

Then he straightens up. Strokes her nose one last time. Walks off.

Walks on.

And walks until he can't feel his feet anymore. Find a bush under which to sleep. Wakes up with the sun, having slept less than a couple hours. Stops at an inn and drink until he passes out in a bed he hasn't paid for, in the arms of a woman he doesn't know the name of.

He wakes up with a splitting headache, gets up on wobbly legs, gather his clothes and his lute. Leaves.

He can't get away from Caingorn fast enough. 

* * *

Jaskier goes through Redania like a breeze. He avoids Rinde, not wanting to steer unpleasant memories - though how futile is the act, when just thinking of the town being nearby and purposely avoiding it is reminder enough - as well as Tretogor, crosses the Pontar midway between Rinde and Novigrad. Heads for Gors Velen. Gets a room at the Unlaced Corset and sings there for two weeks, at the term of which he's kicked out, on account of his songs "depressing the shit out of people". Which he finds unfair. _He_ is having a grand time.

Ladies love his ballads. Can't get their hands off him whenever he starts singing of weakness and want, thinking him to be prey, but really, they're the ones who are a mean to an end. 

An end to his pain.

He begs for one last night at the tavern. He needs some coin he won't drink right away so he can go back to the road with some food in his pack.

> _"Men from all across the land,"_

he sings, playing the part of a fair maiden. _He_ hasn't seen the shadow of a cock in years. None of the ones he could have was the one he wanted.

> _"May try my heart to mend._
> 
> _But what was once broken,_
> 
> _By the Butcher of Blaviken..."_

He doesn't even feel guilty for using _that_ name. It's appropriate to the situation. This is not a love song. Not a ballad written for court.

This song might be speaking of heartbreak, but it's also a jaunty tune, and speaks of sex most of all, which is perfect for the Corset's clientele. 

> _"Who did you bed then?_
> 
> _I asked the maiden._

> _And she said,_

> _I bedded a prince,_
> 
> _and his entire province,_
> 
> _I bedded a lord,_
> 
> _and the whole of Nilfgaard's horde,_
> 
> _I bedded a mage,_
> 
> _and sailors coming from the large,_
> 
> _I bedded a king,_
> 
> _and it was all for nothing,_

> _For when you get used to wolf meat,_
> 
> _Chicken will make your hunger wilt..."_

And he laughs along with the last notes of the song - _all for nothing_ \- and he laughs again as women throw themselves at him, some in hopes of diverting him of the coin he just won, some _sliding_ coins into parts of his clothing that are definitely not made for holding metal. And, _oh, haven't they understood the meaning of his song?_ He laughs again as he takes one of them upstairs, a woman with pale blonde hair, almost silver in the moonlight streaming from the window. 

The next morning, Jaskier isn't laughing as he is walks through the fish market, about to leave Gors Velen for Cidaris, following the coast road. His head his protesting violently the excesses of last night and he has far less coin on his person than he had accounted for. 

That's when a man comes to him on the street. Hands him a letter. It's sealed with wax and the imprint of a familiar ring.

"Shit."

He waits until he's out of the city to open it, sitting on a fallen tree trunk a few paces away from the road. He's half-seriously considering just tossing it away, but there's a part of him - the part that has been aching so badly lately, that can't be fulfilled by one night stands and the praises of strangers, that has craving the warmth of unconditional affection, and the feeling of belonging _somewhere_... That part takes the reins, and he tears the envelope open. 

> _My dear Julian,_
> 
> _Your father passed away last winter..._

Jaskier closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Reopens them. Reads on. There's details, details he doesn't want to commit to memory so he skims over them, until...

> _And I fear I won't be far behind._
> 
> _Please come home before my time arrives._
> 
> _Come and take the place that is rightfully yours._
> 
> _I'll be waiting, as long as I can._

> _Your mo..._

Jaskier tears his eyes away from the letter, heart beating fast and head pounding harder than before. 

He looks at the road that stretches west, then south, through Temeria and then, Cintra. Why was he going this way again? To get away from a mountain? He shakes his head. Cintra is were _destiny_ and _heartbreak_ will be in no time, he's sure, if not waiting for him there already - but not really _for_ him, he knows, instead looking for something, someone else, and no he won't become jealous of a _child_ on top of it all...

Redenia will be only heartbreak of another kind, but one he _has_ to endure, one he can't refuse, and not because of other people's destiny but because even though he's spent more than half his life now running away from home, it doesn't mean he doesn't love his mother still... He might even say he ran away to spare _her_ heartbreak. 

It's not a choice at all, really.

He turns back toward Gors Velen, and the north. 

Back home, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Laced Corset is actually a canon establishment. No clue what happens there but it was there so I used it.


	4. Hunting the Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I come up with the worst names for the twins, Geralt has lots of feelings and Jaskier is a more elusive prey than our Witcher anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, so, getting geralt a'hunting was harder and longer (ha) than planned, but 1) it's much longer than the previous ones and 2) i wrote a lt of stuff ahead so, hopefully, the next chapters will be out quicker :D

Geralt leaves the Singer's Call with the innkeeper's wife's bastards in tow, marching on toward the stable where he left Roach. She won’t appreciate being taken away from it so fast, is probably barely rested, the same heaviness in her bones as the ones Geralt feels in is owns, but he wants to go _now_.

It's borderline stupid, he knows, leaving that late, but somehow it seems less cruel to have the children riding through the night and sleep in the wilds than making them stay any longer in a place where they aren't welcome anymore.

He doesn’t fear for their safety, not really. Their late mother’s husband doesn’t seem to be the physically abusive type, and the man had loved his wife well enough that he doesn’t have any particular ill-wishes for the twins, even willing to part with what seems like a hefty amount of coins – _Ada must have been a hell of a singer_ \- for their sake but, Geralt knows, indifference and disdain can go a long way in fucking up people.

Now, Geralt usually doesn’t care about most humans, unless they’re killing or dying, but he’s got this sudden urge to make sure those two won’t get fucked up in _that_ way. And that’s quite a ridiculous ambition, coming from him, he realizes. What the fuck does he know about caring, right? But he isn’t close to them in any _real_ way, so maybe just not expecting as much from him as from a man who could have loved them will help somehow.

_As soon as I find him, it won’t be my problem anyway._

As soon as he’s found – _the cause of all his trouble, the venomous_ _ear-worm lodged in his brain, turning it into inept mush one cursed song at a time_ – the man whose volatile love put them here in the first place.

 _Would_ he _even be any better at it?_

“Fuck”, he says under his breath, ushering them out as soon as the innkeeper has went back to his patrons and employees. What mess has he been brought into again?

  
  


* * *

It's only when he looks at them above his shoulder to make sure they’ve been following him across the courtyard that he notices...

At first glance, he's thought them almost perfect copies of each other and a few drafts away from their progenitor - except that the girl's hair has been allowed to grow long and is roughly braided, no doubt her mother used to do it and now...

But now that they're out of the crowd and he can see them from head to felt covered toes, the spell has been lifted, and in more ways than once.

For they are neither exact copies nor perfect.

_Poor twisted fuckers indeed._

The girl is limping heavily as she hobbles along her brother, holding onto his left hand. The right one is too busy being a pathetic, misshapen, shriveled thing that he holds tight against his slim chest.

They've both started trembling in the night's cold, and they shake even harder when they catch him looking at them. 

"Got names?" he groans at them, ignoring the other questions he has. They probably know even less than him anyway.

* * *

And so Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken and so on, mighty Witcher, feared and respected all across the lands, starts his journey with his new companions, two pint sized, infirm _children_. 

He knew he would regret it. And he does. As soon as he hoists them in the saddle and Roach throws him what he takes is a long suffering look and he shares the annoyance but what can he do, really? Have them walk behind the mare with their tiny and in one case limping legs? He's no monster, whatever people may like to think. And they sure will go faster that way.

So they travel all night, and all morning, and stop at midday in the next town to eat and get more provisions. Ask the first questions. 

_Has a bard went by lately?_

_Has Jaskier been around?_

_Anyone caught their wife cheating with some thirty something poet?_

_Blue eyed, brown haired, dressed like a peacock and with a tongue that never stops..._

_He's a singer. You couldn't have missed him..._

_Some_ seem to make the connection, too much to Geralt's liking. Looking first at his hair then at his medallion, to the silver wolf-head that lies on his armor covered chest. And they whisper his name with reverence or amusement, sometimes even with a fucking _wink_ and – _what the fuck has he been singing again?_ \- other times with sudden anger. That one he’s more used to, but isn’t sure is about him being a _mutant_ or a _butcher,_ not always, but more about something he's done, and that less than over two decades ago.

Having the children with him seem to untie some recalcitrant tongues, he remarks. When he points out to villagers and merchants and militia men that it's their father he's looking for, he catches a new softness in their eyes and pity on their tongues. 

Pity that is rarely about their disabilitie , he notices. They're too busy fussing over them to _really_ see them. To see whatever is out of place with them. Too taken by the story of two orphans having to travel along with a Witcher in order find their long lost father. _Poor things_ , all alone with this big grumpy man, who _clearly_ doesn't know what the fuck he's doing with them (he takes some insult to that, they're doing _just fine_ ). _Are you eating enough dears?_ they babble. _Are your clothes warm enough, oh what will you do when winter comes?_ and so on _._

They're cute kids, soft spoken and polite whenever they're around strangers, earning their fair share of pats on the head and warm biscuits from matrons and maidens alike. And it's almost like having Jaskier at his side, the way it seems to make him more approachable to people.

When it's just them three though, Geralt notices quickly, they aren't as soft spoken or polite, and they have very distinct personalities.

The girl, Julia, can't seem to shut up, once they're but a few hours into their second day on the road and she has relaxed into his presence. She talks to her brother, to Geralt, to Roach, to the birds and the stone on the path. She _sings_. She sings children songs and and soldiers songs and seamstresses songs and, more than all else, she sings Jaskier's songs. It sets Geralt's teeth on edge at first, but her voice is lovely and, as she pours all her heart into it, he doesn't find it in his to tell her to shut up more than once or twice a day. 

But her brother is, somehow, worse. _Gerlion_ , his name is, and Geralt groans tiredly when he hears it the first time. And most times after that.

 _Ada must have_ really _liked Jaskier's songs._

But what really bothers Geralt about him, more than his name, is that he _barely_ talks. 

When he does, it's in quick, ushered tones and only to Julia, and the rest of the time he just sits there and watch. Or does what Geralt tells him to do and glares.

More than watching and glaring, he's _studying_ him. 

When he makes camp and unmakes it, when he skins rabbits and makes them broth, when he takes care of Roach or hones his swords. When he makes potions before a hunt or cleans up his wounds afterwards, only turning his gaze away when his sister actively demands his attention.

Now, Geralt supposes he should be glad that at least one of them knows better than to run his tongue at all hours of the day. And it's kind of hypocritical coming from him, too. Him who once almost killed a friend because he wished for _silence_. But he's used to humans being chatty when they're comfortable - nervous too, actually, _or is that just Jaskier?_ \- and the kid's near muteness is of a hostile kind that makes it feels very much like he's being judged for something.

He wonders if he's been comparing him to the songs his sister is so fond of. If Gerlion is finding him wanting, the real Geralt not measuring up to the legend of the White Wolf, crafted so expertly from half-truths and covered in a veneer of too pretty words. 

He doesn't smell afraid, at any rate. Nor does his sister. They were a little spooked at first, no doubt by his appearance, which he knows to be quite overwhelming to some, but now they've settled around him, Julia in her unrelenting good mood, Gerlion in his hostile silence.

  
  


* * *

  
Turns out they'll be nine soon, Julia tells him. Two years older than he's guessed.

Even for that age, they need surprisingly little care.

And they're _far_ less shit at menial tasks than Jaskier has ever gotten, and that's saying a lot given they're children, small for their ages, both with a handicap and Jaskier is a grown ass man with full use of his four limbs. They have a way of working together that's efficient and seamless, compensating for each other's weaknesses.

No doubts, Geralt reasons, it's due to having been raised in a inn rather than whatever the fuck kind of place produced a being such as Jaskier. 

_Born healthy, wealthy and protected,_ he thinks, for once with none of the scorn and contempt he usually feels when thinking of pampered nobles. Jaskier may be infuriating in his own right, but for entire different reasons than the rest of them.

He may not be the most useful companion in a fight but he has other talents, some Geralt will refuse to the day he dies to admit _are_ talents, other he's had to concede on, if only to himself.

Like how, for example, he's actually one of the greatest singers Geralt has had the occasion to hear. Or how he can turn a room from hostile to friendly with naught but a couple songs and a smile. Haggle down the price of a bedroom or of a fine garment with nothing more than the promise of his reputation giving it back tenfold, seduce the coldest of women with a handful of rhymes and a bat of his lashes.

He's good with people in a way Geralt can't ever hope to achieve, in a way most don't care to be. Sometimes he thinks it's lucky Jaskier vocation is that of a bard, and that his ambitions don't go further than fame and enough of a fortune that his stomach stays full and his throat wet.

What could he do if he really tried, Geralt wonders. If he were to apply his skills to the pursuit of power...

He knows Jaskier holds a title of some sort already, but can't for the life of him recall which one exactly, or which place his family hails from, apart from the fact that it is somewhere in Redania - which is one of the largest kingdoms on the continent, so it doesn't help narrowing it down much. He knows he's been told at some point in recent years, but he's been told so many things by the bard since they've met, most of it tuned out and ignored...

 _Fuck_ , he doesn't even know his real name... 

That one's not on him though. He actually _asked_.

He remembers, when they first met, only a few weeks after their misadventure in Dol Blathana, as they were camping in the woodlands of Lyria, he'd interrupted the bard from whatever he'd been blathering about, and had asked the question that had been in his head since the start. The only reason he had not done so yet was that he was counting on being rid of the young man much sooner, and that it wouldn't have mattered then. 

"What the fuck kind of name is 'Jaskier', anyway?"

The bard had looked up from his lap, where he'd been juggling lute and music sheets, writing down notes and lyrics as he came up with them on his instrument.

"It's a _stage name,_ Geralt," he’d replied, strumming his lute for emphasis with the hand that didn't hold his quill. “Chosen, _strategically_ I might add, by yours truly, in order to evoke brightness and lightness... Earthly delights... A little bit of _danger_ , maybe..."

"Danger," Geralt had scoffed.

"They're poisonous, you know."

Maybe, but who ate buttercups, _really_? And in enough quantity to die of it? Idiots, maybe. The same kind of idiots that saw a tiny yellow flower and chose it for a name.

"So what's your _real_ name?"

Jaskier had smirked at him and waved his index in his face.

"Ha, ha, ha. I'm not telling."

"You? _Not_ telling?" Geralt had scoffed.

He thought the bard would chafe at the jab but, Jaskier had seemed even more smug, too happy that Geralt was actually talking to him, instead of giving him monosyllabic answers - or none at all. 

But then the corners of his mouth had went down bitterly, his hair falling over his eyes as he looked down at his lute.

"Hmm, wouldn't want the family's _reputation_ endangered by my actions. Nor _my_ reputation being tied to theirs, really."

Geralt has shifted on his stump, poking at the flames of their campfire with a stick to give something for his hands to do.

"I don't care about your reputation, and I won't talk to anyone. I just want to know who I'm travelling with."

Jaskier's eyes had snapped back up to meet his, his lips tightening for a moment as he considered Geralt and his demand, and then he was going again, spreading his arm in a showman's gesture, his lute and papers coming very close to fall off to the muddy forest ground, chin raised and teeth showing in a bright smile.

"Well _this_ is me. Jaskier the Bard. Nothing less and nothing more. The place where I was born and the particle to my name are of no consequences when it comes to my talent, and the only things I wish to be known for are my voice, my words and my devastatingly good looks."

Geralt had glared at him, trying to convene just how much he didn't care about any of those three either.

Jaskier, of course, had been unimpressed by Geralt's so called 'scary face'. He'd placed slender fingers - stained with ink, Geralt had noticed - on his lips, and smiled impishly.

"Now, don't look like at me like that, Witcher. You won't intimidate me into giving it up. Melitele knows what you could do with this information! Like, oh, I don't know, let it escape in strategic locations. And then my mother would hear of it and would proceed to drag me home so I can marry."

"Are you telling me how to get rid of you?"

"It won't work anyway, if you don't know my name."

"Hmm," Geralt had conceded and they had been silent for a couple minutes, until he'd spoken out again, surprising even himself. "So you're nobility?" he'd grunted, giving the bard a once-over. It explained quite a few things, really, from the very shape of his body - nearly as tall as Geralt himself, but slender and made for dancing more than fighting - to the way he draped himself in the finest fabrics. From his borderline obsession with bathing to his love for expensive wine. 

Jaskier had hummed, already back to his lute and the song he'd been working on.

"Something like that."

Something like that. _Well, that's entirely unhelpful, now._

He almost wishes he had pushed, demanded to know who the fuck exactly he'd unwillingly picked up as a travel companion. But Geralt himself is a private man, and he usually tries to respect the wishes of others to keep their secrets, unless those have direct consequences on his work.

So he'd let it go and when they had parted way a few days later, Geralt had put the issue out of his mind, certain that it would never be of importance again, determined to avoid the man if their paths ever crossed again. And when it inevitably did, again and again, Jaskier in his mind was _just Jaskier_ by then. Loud and passionate and carefree and taking so much place in Geralt's life that he'd never thought again to poke his own's nose in _his_ life.

Maybe he should have pushed.

* * *

After the first week he gets tired of walking and, having a somewhat guilty thought for the bard for all the times he had him follow behind Roach on foot - though he probably could have sold a few of the ridiculously fancy clothes Geralt has seen him in over the years and bought ten mounts for himself and still have change - he buys another horse. It's old but sturdy, and it'll carry them both well enough for now.

The second week he gives Gerlion one of his smaller knives, after he catches him watching him even more closely as he sharpens his blade. The boy is startled out of his passive aggressive stance by the gesture for a moment there, grumbling a "thank you" as he pockets the knife. Now he often sees him trying to flip it around one handed, having to bend every now and then to pick it up, and then he has to so it less often, and Geralt doesn't see the knife again. Soon Julia will want her own, too, and he'll buy her a silver blade one one day at a market in Guleta, but for now...

It's the third week, and he has the confirmation, if need be, that he's made a colossal mistake accepting this unusual quest. 

Really, had it been anyone - _anyone_ \- else he would have said no. Flat out. And would not have changed his mind, especially with no reward at the end.

He has no idea where to look, where to go. The continent, suddenly, seems too vast, the roads too long, the towns and villages too numerous. 

He curses himself for not considering this sooner, curses the innkeeper for giving him such an impossible task, the children for being _children_ , Jaskier for his wayward cock. The dead singer for falling for his oh too well practiced song.

But the truth is, he heard the bard's name and jumped feet first into this situation, with no little to no thought for _how_ and _how long_.

There's something about Jaskier that makes Geralt impulsive. That makes his slow heart beat just a little bit faster, as if trying to coordinate with the wild pulse of humanity. 

Now he wants to rush down the Path. 

He's yearning for a smell to track, a sign to follow.

Hell, he'd even take a prophecy to show him the right course.

But with nowhere to start, he has to do this the slow, uncertain way. Pick a direction and stick to it until he's told it's the wrong one.

He does not like it one bit. 

He's growing impatient, restless, feeling in a hurry that has little to do with getting rid of his young charges. 

He takes it out on the monsters, mostly, and getting a handful of new scars for his trouble - nothing dramatic, only scraps and he almost lose a limb _just the_ _once_ \- letting off his frustration but also hoping that maybe, if he makes enough noise, it will attract Jaskier's attention.

And outside of work, of course, he's trying to not let it show. Both as a matter of pride and because he'd rather spare the kids his personal issues with their progenitor. But he's either been getting more easy to read or his travel companions more adept at reading him.

Because one winter morning, Julia asks him:

“We’re slowing you down, aren’t we?”

Gerald huffs, neither denying nor confirming. Her face falls nonetheless and he curses under his breath.  
  
“No,” he says. "You're doing fine. And I’m supposed to bring you to him. What’s the point if you’re not with me when I find him?”

“But you _want_ to find him, right?" she says urgently, her blue eyes pleading, though for what exactly, he isn't sure. "I mean, you would want to even if we weren’t there?”

“No. I was quite happy staying away before your father gave you to me.”

“Not our father”, she points out. “But aren’t you friends? Ma told us you were.”

“Not really,” Gerald grumbles.

“But the songs...”

“Were written a long time ago. Things have changed. I doubt Jaskier would call me his friend anymore.”  
  
It’s been close to six months now since he's seen the bard. Not the longest period of time they've spent apart by far, but they've never left each other on such bad terms before. And this time (like most of the time, a small; spiteful voice says from the back of his head), it was Geralt who was in the wrong. Even though he had his reasons. Even though he would probably do it all over again. Even though they're still some of that rage burning inside him when he thinks of the impact Jaskier's had on his life, a rage that fuels on itself because Geralt isn't even supposed to _feel_ it in the first place... 

_And it's all his fault..._

He can still admit the way he talked to the bard was cruel. It was meant to be, after all. Meant to drive him away. Meant to spare them what he know would have been an even worse pain.

He won't be surprised if the bard tells him he doesn't ever want to see him again, when he finally finds him. And he's both hoping for and dreading it. 

Fuck, but he _does_ want to find him, though. And sooner rather than later.

He doesn't feel much like a wolf right now, he thinks bitterly. More like a puppy running to its human, a stick between his teeth - _are the twins the stick in this analogy?_ fuck, Geralt would have made a _terrible_ poet - hopping its last bite has been forgiven, hoping to not get kicked and left again.

* * *

The _real_ problem isn't that he can't find traces of Jaskier. It's that suddenly, he's hearing of him _everywhere_ , as much a subject of gossip as the dalliances of the ruling class or the raising shadow of war down south. Geralt thinks at first it's just, well, Jaskier's _talent_ , being recognized. But the farther down the Path he goes, the odder the phenomenon gets. 

Because not only does he hear from him everywhere, but the rumors are coming from _all over the place_.

In eastern Redania, the last they've seen of him he was bound for Kaedwen. In western Kaedwen, they haven't seen him in two years, but a merchant inform Geralt he was performing at Ard Carraigh not a month ago. Halfway to the capital, and Geralt overhears two young women argue over which one truly heard him sing, and whether it was in Aedd Gynvael or Ban Glean. Geralt thinks the later has the more chance of being true, as Aedd Gynvael is even farther north than Caer Mohren and Jaskier despises the cold will every fiber of his being. But that doesn't mean that is actually true either. Even on the fastest horse, Jaskier would have had to ride without rest to cover such distances in so little time. And that is so not his style that Geralt feels like a moron following the road south, but it's the most credible lead he has.

More credible than the ones that place him back in Redania, Temeria or even Angren, at dates that make no sense at all. 

Every-time he thinks he's about to catch up with him him, the trace has gone cold, and the rumors are weeks old where he expected them to be fresh, fresh where he expects them to be cold. And those too he loses after a day or a week, the rumors of his passage not carrying on to the next town, his scent fading to nothingness at a bend in the road. And when he picks it up again it's coming from another direction than the one he's been travelling from.

It's maddening. Makes Geralt feel like a clueless pup, his nose and wit tricked by mere changes in the wind. If his brothers could see him right now, they sure would have a laugh at him. Vesemir would be ashamed. Would make him go through the Trials again, just to set his head straight. 

_What the fuck is going on here?_

* * *

By the end of the second month Julia has grown more quiet, as if the well of words inside her has started to run dry. 

There's nothing really interesting happening anyway, so maybe she's just lacking in inspiration.

"You know how to read, right?" he asks one night. 

The twins look up from their dinner in surprise, then look over at Roach as if Geralt was seriously asking his fucking horse if she was literate and then look back at him, and at his expectantly raised eyebrows.

"Yes, ma taught us," Julia chips. She smiles, looking very proud.

"Here."

Geralt takes out a book from his saddle bags. It's a book on monsters, found in Riverdell half a year back and painstakingly annotated and corrected by Geralt himself. He's tore entire pages from it, fed them to fires every now and then. Not worth any more than that.

The final produce is something between a manual and a log, contemning both impartial information and personal observation. Geralt is a bit embarrassed by the thought of having someone else read it, but it's better than subjecting himself to Julia's interrogations. Besides, he's not holding out on taking contracts because they are with him and, sometimes, there's just no way to leave them out of his hunts. Better they know as much as possible about the kind of beasts they might encounter while travelling with a Witcher.

And if he can correct some of the misconceptions Jaskier's songs have seeded in their little heads, he'll count that too as a victory.

  
  


* * *

  
  


After three months, Geralt realizes, the _truly annoying_ thing about looking for Jaskier is...

His thoughts are full of him.

He thinks of him when he decides where to go next. Thinks of him when Julia starts singing in the morning, and when she stops in the evening, tired by another day in the saddle. Thinks of him when Gerlion sweeps his hair away from his eyes as it starts to get too long, in a gesture so reminiscent of his father that Geralt wants to find a pair of scissors and have a go at his bangs - _"no way you're touching my hair with your knife, Geralt"_ \- and when winters covers the land and he has to pay for a room almost every night in order to keep the humans in his charge away from the biting cold, spending coin earned with songs of his exploits.

Of course, he thinks of him when he decides where to go next and when they pass through familiar places. When he enters a town and had to chose the inn that's most likely to have had the bard sing in its common room recently - and the next most likely, and the next... - when he knocks on castle doors and breezes through brothels - rarely stopping, only sniffing around and as everywhere, asking a few strategic questions. 

When he _does_ stop and - in those moment where he could almost fall asleep in a stranger's arms, if not for the knowledge that his coin bought only so much of their time, and he has two tiny, defenseless humans to go back to - wonders whose bed Jaskier has fallen into that night.

He thinks of him even when...

He thinks of Yennefer. 

At night when the twins are asleep and for once he's trying to do the same, rather than simply sit in front of the fire and meditate. 

He pictures her violet eyes and remembers her sweet mouth on him, the unique fragrance of her skin and the way moonlight shines upon her dark hair.

Wonders when his wish will bring them back together once more, and if she will still be mad at him. He wouldn't blame her for it. Hell, _he_ 's blaming himself for this whole situation - if he hadn't made that first wish, if he'd worded the last one differently - and wouldn't be surprised if she stuck around only long enough to place some painful and disgusting curse upon him. Of course there's only so much you can curse a Witcher with, but she's a creative one, Yennefer, she would think of _something_...

And he thinks of the last time they saw each other, in Caingorn, on that cursed mountain. Thinks of how he'd wanted to follow after her, had wanted to take out his sword and have a go at the meddling dragon - what right did he had, to speak so with the voice of Destiny, to poke his scaly nose into their lives, offering them heartbreak as recompense for saving his child, and _who the fuck does that?_

How he'd wanted to destroy something, anything, in order to alleviate those feelings he could barely put names on. 

How he'd settled for his bard's heart.

He scoffs at himself when that thought presents itself to him. He can be so arrogant sometimes. Break Jaskier's heart? _Him?_ He scratched it _at best_. What's one friendship lost for a man who falls in love with someone new every day? Who he's never seen lose any sleep over a terminated liaison, never mind over one surly Witcher who has never shown him the appreciation that he deserves. 

No, if anyone's been hurt in the process, it's Geralt himself. He'd thought lashing out before being abandoned by yet another person would prevent him for feeling - _feeling_ , urgh, how he wishes tales were true - more of that very peculiar brand of pain that had just started blooming inside his chest as Yennefer walked away. Because it might not have come that day, or even that year, but he knew that when Jaskier decided to wash his hand of him too, the wound that would result would not be the kind that heals.

He curses himself when he realizes where his thoughts have strayed. 

Tries to conjure up visions of soft curves and flowing locks, full lips and delicate fingers...

But instead he can only picture blue eyes turned sad and fluttering hands hanging still at his bard's side, and instead of moans and gasps all he can hear is a flawless voice break in defeat.

_"See you around, Geralt."_

And it's starting to get old but now he even thinks of him when...

Geralt thinks of his Child of Surprise. 

Wonders what name Pavetta and Duny gave it. He's stayed far away from Cintra this last decade, has turned a deaf ear to what rumors hail from there. But now he thinks and wonder. And wish he'd been listening. 

Just like he wished he'd listened to his bard. Then maybe he would know where to go, rather than running around like a headless chicken.

 _His_ bard.

Since when has he been calling him that in his head, he wonders one evening, as he makes fire in a clearing near the outskirts of Hagge. Weeks, months, years, maybe.

The twins are already huddling close to the growing flames, whispering in quiet tones to each other.

He can hear every word, of course, but isn't really listening to that either, too absorbed by his thoughts.

As they talk between them of barghests and kobolds, his mind goes back to that fated night where he'd followed after Jaskier to a royal court, and had found Destiny waiting, and how maybe this is a all a much more tangled mess than he'd thought at first.

* * *

Jaskier isn't travelling alone.

It takes a while before Geralt hears of her, and few even then have seen her, but there seem to be a woman accompanying him, sometimes. That's unusual coming from Jaskier. He's more of a love them and leave them type, except when they have money or manage to capture his imagination. Then he encroaches himself until they kick him out or he finds another muse. 

The only one he ever really _travels_ with though, is Geralt. And he would be lying if he tried to pretend it didn't sting just a little bit. But then no one asks them, so that's something he can bury deep down with all the rest.

He wonders who she is. If he's ever heard of her.

Maybe it's the Countess de Staele, back to her senses and to Jaskier's eager arms. But no. From what he knows of her, she wouldn't leave her luxurious home for the dirt of the road and besides, none of those that mention her can really recall what's she's like, and Geralt doubts they would have forgotten such a woman that easily.

He rakes his brain for other names, but comes out with empty hands. 

Maybe it's another bard then. Someone like Ada, whom he can teach to and impress and who will listen to his songs eagerly.

He discards that option after the trail takes yet another nonsensical detour.

 _Portals_ , he realizes, then, feeling like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

Jaskier is travelling with a mage.

Of course, his first thought his for Yennefer. But that one too he discards quickly. She and Jaskier can't stand each other, for whatever reason (well, Jaskier is afraid of her, and she finds him annoying). And he would know. He would smell lilac and gooseberry along the trail, mixing with the faint traces of Jaskier he manages to pick up here and there. And he's pretty sure people _would_ remember _her_ among all people.

Then who is it? And what the fuck are they playing at with Geralt's bard?

* * *

Winter is coming to a close, and they're about to pass the boundary between Aedirn and Temeria. Geralt is shopping for clothes for the twins, in a small-ish but prosperous town, when he smells it.

The scent he’s been searching for.

He whirls around in the small shop, dropping shirts and pants, eyes raking the racks, not really caring for the various colors and fabrics so much as trying to match what his nose tells him with what his eyes see and...

 _There_. Folded neatly on top of a stool, there's an embroidered shirt, and Geralt zeroes on it like a bloodhound. 

It smells like smoke and perfume, sweat and and herbs and wine.

Not caring if there's anyone around to see him do it, or what it might look like - or mean - Geralt raises it to his nose, buries his face in it.

A dual wave of relief and anguish washes over him, confusing as all hell. 

The scent is both familiar and changed - the smoke is new, and it doesn't come from a fire camp - but the herbs are the same, the ones Jaskier uses to wash himself clean of the dirt of the road.

Salty sweat and sweet, white wine he knows. Has smelled it coming off from the bard as he stumbled into a shared room, after a night of singing and drinking, coming from the other side of a shared bed, reassuring because of it's semi-constancy in Geralt's life, unnerving because for all the nights they've spent in close quarters, having someone laying so close that you can knock into them while you sleep isn't something he really does, not unless there's been fucking involved beforehand, and even then. 

The perfume is that of a woman. Faint as a memory, almost insignificant besides the fact that it's _there_ , like a stain he aches to wash away.

By all mean, it shouldn't be affecting him. I's just a fucking shirt. That needs to be washed - _and repaired_ , he adds idly to himself when his little finger slips through a hole in the fabric - and... 

It's a taste of his prey, that makes his mouth water and his stomach growl for more.

It's a taunt and a challenge. 

_Get it the fuck together, Witcher. This is only a job. No one took anything from you. You're the one who's getting something back to him..._

He looks up then, and catches the shop owner looking at him like the freak that he is, with widened eyes and raised eyebrows.

He sighs, and walks up to her. She schools her expression as he approaches, looking him up and down and he does the same. She's a woman in her forties, he thinks, hair graying already. She looks the opposite of fun, some might say, dressed with a sobriety and taste that is reflected all around the shop.

"Do you know where this came from?" he asks the merchant, refraining at the last moment from thrusting the thing in her face, so she can smell it too recognize who it belongs to and give him a satisfactory answer. Humans don't work that way, he reminds himself. She's much more likely to recognize the color or the stitching than the smell of a man she probably doesn't even know the name of. Instead he unfolds it over the counter, so she can look at it.

She squints at the garment, a grimace of distaste on her thin lips.

"A man came to buy a shirt two days ago. Tossed that one in a corner and changed right here. Quite scandalous it was. He was some kind of entertainer I think. Said he couldn't play before the mayor with a burn hole in his shirt, even with a doublet on top!"

A handful of copper and ten minutes later, Geralt is banging at the mayor's door, Jaskier's discarded shirt balled up in his fist. 

The mayor's eyes widen with recognition as he looks Geralt up and down, and walks up to him, bouncing in excitation. Geralt stiffens, but the stout man only takes his hands, or tries to, settling for the one that's free. 

"The White Wolf! In the flesh! Oh, we heard such tales! And not two days ago!"

"Hmm."

There's a faint trail he wants to follow deeper into the house, an echo of the scent that comes from Jaskier's shirt. He looks over the mayor's shoulder, straining his ears to in the hope to catch music. But the house is mostly silent, bare for the noises that come from what he guesses is the kitchen.

"Tell me, Witcher, what brings you to my home? Is there a monster to slay nearby? A princess to save? Do you require assistance in any matter?"

Geralt blinks down at him 

"The bard."

"Oh." The mayor smile fades for an instant, but comes back just as quick. "Well, you just missed him."

"Did he say anything of where he was going?"

"Oh, yes, yes, he did say where," sounding far too exited to have an answer than a grown man who's in charge of a whole ass town has any right to be. " _Home_. Though he didn't tell where that was. But I'm sure you would know, great friends that you are! And if you make haste, you'll certainly catch up to him in no time!"

Geralt doubts it very much, but only nods politely, refusing the mayor's invitation to dinner less so. He's got no patience left for niceties. He needs to go back to the twins. And they need to get going.

When he's back to camp, Julia asks for their new things and Geralt blinks down at her, having forgotten why he went to town in the first place.

"Tomorrow," he responds finally, "in the next town." And the corners of her mouths go down, but she nods solemnly and go sit by her brother, tightening her fraying shawl around her slim shoulders. 

Geralt sigh and un-clenches his fist. The fine fabric of the shirt is now rumpled and wrinkled, and he tries in vain to smooth it over before shaking himself, feeling like a damned idiot and a sap. He buries it at the bottom of his saddle bag.

_To never be thought of again._

He has to change tactics, if what he has done so far can even be qualified as such. 

He's done running after Jaskier, and the unremarkable witch who's been whisking him away from Geralt's reach only to dangle him farther down the Path, taunting him and mocking him in some sick game... 

He's done playing.

They're going back to Redania. There will be people who know more about him there. In Oxenfurt, they ought to know his legal identity. What place he calls home, the names he never gave to Geralt, even though he spoke at length of how he spent his childhood, playing in fields and woods around his family's estates with his cousin. The stories his mother used to tell him. How his father taught him to ride and how heartbroken he was when he was sent away for his education.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple things:  
> \- "thirty something poet": geralt doesn't actually know how old jaskier is lol. i'm sticking to the show's timeline, so Ciri is born around 50, and the fall of Cintra in 63. I put Rare Species (and jaskier's actually 41 there?!) in 60 and the rest you'll see :)  
> \- thank you people who left comments and subbed and all, you're very cool and i hope you're still there. lot of fun(ky) stuff coming your way.


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